Inevitably Lovable
by letsbehappy
Summary: It seems that after four years of marriage, Gabriella Montez has still yet to share with her husband her fear of childbirth. Although during these next nine months, he's sure to figure it out. Troy/Gabriella
1. Panic? Who's Panicking?

**Summary: **It seems that after four years of marriage, Gabriella Montez has still yet to share with her husband her fear of childbirth. Although during these next nine months, he's sure to figure it out.

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**Inevitably Lovable**

-----

"Would you look at that?" Troy asks with an incredulous tone, after nudging me roughly with his elbow. I follow his line of vision and sigh. He can tsk and frown disapprovingly all he wants, but from a twenty yard distance, it's not going to do anything.

"I swear, that man has probably never seen a parenting book in his life," he continues, "and isn't it just common sense to not fling your child up in the air? All parents should know that." We sit at our picnic table at a park filled with dozens of families, staring at a seven foot man throwing his giggling toddler up into the heavens. The kid only remains safe, supported by his big hands, for about two seconds before being airborne again.

I pick at the food we brought for our lunch, which for some reason tastes kind of odd today, and tell him, "We should be minding our own business, Troy. People came here to enjoy a beautiful day at the park, not to be gaped at."

While my sandwich remains mostly untouched, Troy swallows his in four massive bites. I swear that man will never stop loving peanut butter and jelly. Between mouthfuls, he says, "Wouldn't you feel responsible if that poor child got a concussion, knowing that we could have done something to prevent it? You know, if I had a kid, I'd show that man over there how to be a proper dad."

There he goes again. _If I had a kid_. That sentence has been creeping up on me in all our conversations these days. It makes me nervous and jittery every time I hear it because I'm scared Troy will one day directly ask to have a baby and how will I say no then without sounding like a freak?

We sit in silence some more. Then he says, "Doesn't it feel kind of awkward, Gabi?"

"What does?"

"Being here alone—not that I don't love being together—but this park seems like a perfect place to bring your family to and there are kids running around everywhere."

My nonchalant demeanor is slowly disappearing and I'm about to turn into a human water fountain, sweating buckets while dreading the inevitable question. _"Why don't we have a child?"_ Or the demand. _"We're having a child, Gabi. End of discussion."_

"No, not really." I shrug.

He nods in false agreement.

I can tell it's been bugging him lately. The whole 'being married for four years and still no mini Troys and Gabriellas running around' thing. Like just last week when he was cleaning out our basement and found his old basketball and said: "My dad gave this to me and I hope to pass it on someday, too." or a few nights ago when he was a bit hesitant about the condom.

I've been a sort of apprehensive about sex since then, fearing for the worst.

But it's not that I hate kids. Some people make them out to be the most amazing things in the world, and I partially agree with them. I'm a teacher for goodness sake. I devote my life to teaching kids.

See that boy over there? The one yanking his mother's hair out, screeching for her to climb up the thirty foot tree to retrieve his kite?

Totally adorable. Pure sweetness.

Why, do you ask, that I fear something I've never experienced before? Maybe it's because the pain of childbirth was the reason I'm an only child. Maybe it's because a fellow teacher's hand was in a cast for weeks, thanks to his wife, following the birth of his child. Or maybe it's because of all those risks I hear about. I mean, 'caesarean section' seems like such a scary concept, and have you seen how big Kate's belly in Jon & Kate Plus 8 was?

I've seen mothers after giving birth practically _glowing _in their hospital beds, not minding that they're all sticky and gross. But perhaps since we're so focused on that little bundle of joy in her arms, we miss that the whimsical look is actually one of deliriousness.

If childbirth isn't that excruciatingly terrible then why do so many women threaten to castrate their husbands, in a non-joking manner, during it? I love Troy and I would never think of hurting him. If giving birth to a child could make me threaten him like that, then it must be unbearably painful in an I'd-rather-die-than-go-through-this way.

A slight pressure in my lower abdomen erases all my thoughts. I inquire, "Troy, are we almost done here? Let's go home because I really need to use a bathroom and porta-potties are disgusting."

"Sure, let's go. Is it, uh, your time of the month again because you've already been twice this morning." He starts to gather our things.

Apparently, my frequent visits to the bathroom were noticed by him too. "No, I just—" I pause, remembering that my period was last week. Scratch that, my period was _supposed_ to be last week.

But it wasn't.

There's nothing wrong with me, is there? If I miss it, that doesn't exactly mean I'm—

Pfft. No, I'm not. That idea was too funny; I amuse myself sometimes.

"Um, Gab? Why are you laughing?"

I'm laughing? Oh, of course I'm laughing. The thought that entered my mind was just so preposterous and senseless that it was humorous.

I can't possibly be—

But what if I am?

No, don't think like that, Gabriella, I tell myself. Think of happy rainbows and flowers and maybe throw in a couple of birds into that nice mental image. Like those white ones I like with the mile-long beaks and legs. What are they called? Storks, maybe? They're often pictured carrying something in their beaks—something like—

Oh shit.

_But what if I am?_

_-----_

**AN: **Yes, this is another story co-written between Andryya and I!


	2. Thank Goodness It Was All a Dream

Crap, I might have just stopped breathing.

"Gabriella? Are you all right? First you're all giggly and now you're as white as a sheet." Troy studies me carefully, alarmed and slightly frightened.

I mutter, "Um, I'm fine." Then I take his hand and start to lead him towards the car.

"You're sure? All week, you've been telling me that you've been really tired, and you barely ate your lunch," he says.

"Yeah," I say uncertainly, "I'm fine."

When we get to the car, he opens the door for me before trotting off to the other side. I honestly do find it amazing that he still does all these sweet things, but I haven't failed to notice that these kind gestures have been very consistent these past few weeks. He's very subtly trying to tell me that he wants something, I know it, like he's a child trying to soften up his parents so they'll lift his punishment.

"Troy?" I hesitantly inquire, "Can we stop at the pharmacy so I can pick up something?"

"Of course," he answers.

Ten silent minutes pass and we're heading into a nearly-empty parking lot. "You can stay here," I tell him, "it won't take long."

He doesn't suspect a thing and merely replies, "Okay."

I stroll into the store and wander up an aisle, looking for home pregnancy tests. It's totally absurd that I'm looking for them—because I'm _not_ pregnant; I can't be—but it's better to find out now than waking up later with a protruding belly.

Now that I've located them, my eyes widen a bit. Who knew there were so many different kinds? Okay, I did, seeing as I've watched different commercials for different ones, but I'd never thought that I'd actually be _choosing_ which one to buy. And I'm only buying one. Because that one will tell me everything I need to know. Because that one will tell me I won't be going through nine months of mood swings, food cravings, and maternity clothes.

Remembering that Troy was waiting for me, I hurriedly snatch a professional looking pink one from the shelf, pay for it and stuff it in my purse.

No need to get him all excited for something that isn't true.

-----

Before today, I've never noticed how slow Troy drives. Or how slow all the people in front of us could drive. Everyone should know that you don't get between a woman and a bathroom when she's got a pregnancy test.

Finally, we arrive home and I rush to the bathroom. My clumsy fingers pry open my purse then I find myself staring at the box for a moment.

Tears prick my eyes, but why am I crying? If I am really pregnant then I should be _happy_. I have a stable job and I've been married for four years. This would be a perfect time to expand the family because I'm not some careless teenage girl who got a little too drunk and did something she regretted since her whole future could come crashing down if two blue lines showed up on the stick she just peed on.

There are women out there who pay thousands of dollars for fertilization treatments to have a baby, so why am I being so selfish? Do I not want to bring a new life into this world because I don't think I can handle possibly going through fifty hours of labour?

Darn my eleventh grade Geography teacher. Even though it wasn't her fault, ever since she came back from her maternity leave in a wheelchair, I've been afraid. Did she have to explain all the details about how the birth of her huge-headed, posterior baby damaged her muscles, back _and_ legs? She repeatedly mentioned the pain throughout the rest of the year, too as if the horror story-telling session wasn't enough.

I calm myself and set the unopened box down on the edge of the sink.

Deep breaths, Gabriella. Stress can't be good for your (nonexistent) baby.

In one swift motion, I grab the test and rip it open. It's now or never, and although the latter sounds the most appealing, almost my whole body is screaming for me to get it over with now.

-----

Before today, I've never noticed how long three minutes can be. If my whole life had passed that slowly, I might as well be ten years old.

I hastily glance down at the stick.

Two lines.

That's negative, right?

Yeah, I was never good with sarcasm.

I sniffle, my heart still racing. Although I'm as scared as hell right now, at least one of us will be pleased. More like this-is-the-best-thing-to-ever-happen-to-me ecstatic.

"T-Troy?" I nervously call. What will he say? What if I've been reading his signs wrong?

"Yes, Gabi?" The house is silent after I hear the television turn off, but the sound of his footsteps are heard shortly after.

My numb fingers twist the door knob and I step out of the small room. "You should...see this."

He squints his eyes as I hold out the white stick. Wiping my sweaty palms on my pants, I don't know if I should be dreading his reaction or not. Finally, he asks, "What...is it?" His befuddled tone almost makes me laugh out loud.

"You've never seen a positive home pregnancy test before, Troy?"

More silence.

Then it's a colorful explosion of happiness.

"Gabi, that's amazing!" If his smile would get any wider, the ends of his mouth would reach his eyes. "This is really really wonderful! I can't believe this. We're going to have a baby!" He pulls me into a bone-crushing hug, nuzzling my cheek.

He notices my reluctance and releases me from his embrace. "Aren't you grateful, too?" he says.

A dizzy spell hits me and my pounding head starts filling with all these worries.

He repeats his question, yet for some reason, his voice has gotten all distant and is partially drowned out by the buzzing in my ears. I stutter, "Yeah, I just—I think I need to sit down."

But before I can even safely lower myself on to something solid, my knees give out, and I tumble into Troy's unsuspecting arms.

**----**

"Gabriella, are you okay? Say something." Someone is gently patting my cheek, causing my eyes to flutter open.

The second thing I notice is that I'm on mine and Troy's bed. Seeking comfort, I sink my head deeper into the pillow, allow myself to enjoy its softness and relax.

Thank goodness. _Thank. Goodness._

"Gabri-ella," the voice croons again. Oh, it's just my husband.

"Oh, Troy," I titter, "I just had the most peculiar dream." Fully awake, I sit up and meet his gaze.

"Huh?" Confused, he informs me, "You were only out for about two minutes."

"What do you mean?" I question, equally perplexed.

"You passed out, don't you remember? I carried you to the bed." When I don't reply, Troy speaks again. "We were in front of the bathroom and you showed me the pregnancy test..."

_Oh God._ That was real? It actually happened?

Salty tears start to leak out of my eyes again and I'm breathing hard.

"Oh, I know, baby," he soothes me, "I'm so, _so_ happy, too. We're going to be parents!"


	3. What Mothers Are For

"Okay, let's take up the homework I assigned on Friday," I say to my science class on Monday morning as I try to locate some chalk.

Papers rustle, pencil cases are opened and a student named Jimmy Zara complains, "Can't believe we got homework over the weekend, Mrs. B. That's just cruel."

You want cruel, Jimmy? Try being pregnant.

"I didn't mind it," says a grinning Tiara Gold who sits front and center, "I found the homework to be quite easy."

I smile back at her. "You can start then, Tiara. What's the answer to number one?"

"Nondisjunction is when chromosome pairs don't separate properly during meiosis," she states in an effortless tone.

"That's correct. And..." I scan the room, looking for someone who is not paying attention. "...Donny, name the three medical conditions, caused by nondisjunction, which we learned about."

Startled, he jumps in his seat but is somehow still able to reply, "Uh, Down Syndrome, Klinefelter Syndrome and Turner Syndrome." He adds as an afterthought, "Wow, that's a lot that can go wrong."

My thoughts exactly, Donny. At last, someone who understands.

We go through the rest of the answers, each of them making me wish I had saved the reproduction unit for last.

-----

Two days later, Troy and I stand outside his parents' house waiting for someone to answer the door and, as Troy puts it, to be able to finally tell them the "good news". I called my mother earlier, telling her to meet us here, and, judging by her white van resting on the driveway, she has already arrived.

They'll probably stare, annoyed at us, for a few seconds for not notifying them as soon as we knew, but you can't blame me by wanting to get the "good news" confirmed by a blood test at the doctor's first. After yesterday, all my hope sizzled out.

"Gabi, Troy," Lucille greets us, "come in!" She beckons me and Troy to the living room where his dad and my mom are calmly seated, both smiling as if they already knew.

Hugs and more greetings are exchanged before we sit down. Cups of green tea are stationed on the glass coffee table. Google had informed our gullible mothers about the tea's apparent ability to naturally reduce wrinkles.

"So about that news you wanted to share?" urges my mother-in-law expectantly. Oh, they can probably all figure it out themselves, no need to dwell on such an unfortunate subject. We have gathered them all in one place to talk; we can either be having a baby or moving to Antarctica to devote our lives to penguin research.

I start to stutter, "We're p_—_" I can't say 'we're pregnant', can I? Troy's not the going to be the one with a live human being growing inside of him. "I_—_"

"Gabi's pregnant, and we're having a baby," finishes Troy so confidently that I don't doubt he's been rehearsing the statement for a while.

Our parents don't miss the lack of contentment on my face, and they are noticeably bewildered, trying to figure out if unblinking, wide eyes are a sign of elatedness. Judging by our silence, we could easily be mistaken for a family of mimes.

"It has two heads, doesn't it?" Jack asks with a straight face.

An offended and embarrassed Troy exclaims, "Dad, no! Gabriella's only about six weeks pregnant; it's barely started growing—"

"And you don't know for sure yet. I understand. Don't worry, son, I'm sure both heads will join sooner or later to form one nice, normal head." My father-in-law gives a firm nod, pleased with himself for being so supportive.

"Dad," Troy warns him.

Lucille sighs, "Jack, honey, I'm sure there's nothing wrong with the baby." She turns to us, gushing, "Congratulations, you guys! Oh, I cannot believe it. I'm an old grandmother at fifty-two. I really hope I don't have the wrinkles to prove it."

"Why is Gabriella so pale and jumpy then, Luce?" the coach questions again.

My mother lays a hand on my quivering knee. "He has a point. What's wrong, Gabi? This is wonderful news for you two. It's the most incredible feeling to be a parent."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Troy send me a quizzical look, trying to figure out if he's missed anything.

"Of course I'm excited," I scoff, offended and lying. The pitch of my voice rises at the speed of a moving train. "I'm excited to maybe even have more, one day!"

If I actually make it through this birth first.

Oh, shit. What in the world possessed me to think that I could have possibly omitted the truth without being caught?

"You just seem a bit jittery, dear," murmurs my mother softly in that comforting tone all mothers seem to have. "Have some tea."

I gratefully accept a cup, giving her a smile while trying not to twitch noticeably. "Do you have any sugar, Lucille?"

"It's just in the kitchen, Gabriella. I'll get some for you," she tells me.

Before she can stand up, I say, "It's okay. I'll get it myself. I remember where it is from last time." Identical grins show up on our faces. Nevertheless, let us not get into the story of how I helped her make Troy a birthday cake and gave her salt instead of the sweet, white crystals used in baking.

"I'll go with you, Gabi," says my mother, "I baked some brownies for your arrival, and I think they should be ready now."

I catch Troy's unmistakable perkiness prior to leaving the room.

"I know something's off about you, Gabi," comments my mother wryly, cutting straight to the point as soon as we enter the kitchen.

"W-What? Didn't you hear me before? Everything is fine."

She scolds me, "You'd think after living with me for eighteen years that you'd know better than to lie to my face."

"_Well_," I say, deliberately pausing, "weren't you nervous too when you found out you were pregnant, mom?"

"I was," she admits and contemplates her next words, "I guess you've always had a strange need to fuel your nerves even more, though"

My mother laughs lightly, recalling my childhood. "If you ever need anything, Lucille and I will always be happy to help because I doubt Troy will have much expertise on this. So what are you nervous about, anyway?"

"Everything," I huff, "the birth…the months leading up to the birth—but mainly the birth—but I guess that would be the shortest thing I'd have to worry about…and even the months before the birth would be short when compared to the first years of the child's life."

"Oh, no, mom," I cry, "What was I thinking? I can't take care of a baby! What will I do when it starts scratching up the furniture and coughing up hairballs?"

"Mija," she speaks softly with worry in her dark brown eyes, "you're not buying a pet cat."

"Oh, right," I cough, clearing my throat awkwardly; "I knew that. The hysteria was just getting to me."

"I think you'll do perfectly fine, even admirably, like you always do. The worry will pass, and it really is wonderful to have children."

Sure, mom, that's the only thing you can say since you've already been through this hell.

"And you'll have Troy there for you," she states, "I should know, from experience that having the father there will be a huge help."

"Sorry, mom," I say, knowing that she had to raise me on her own after my father left us.

She hugs me. "I'm so...shocked but, at the same time, so glad for you. You're already having a baby, yet it feels like just yesterday when you were telling me your stomach hurt on your first day of high school."

I thank her for the encouraging words quietly and scramble to get the sugar while she brings out her chocolate-filled treats.

"Those brownies look delicious, Maria," observes Lucille.

Troy waits until everyone else has picked up a brownie before diving in greedily to get one for himself. I've trained him well.

We then settle into a light conversation about the trivial aspects of our lives.

"And by the way, don't worry, Gabriella, it's actually okay to drop the baby by accident a few times, " Jack chuckles at his own joke, "I mean, Troy turned out perfectly normal, didn't he?"


	4. Road to Independency

Moaning grumpily, I clutch both ends of the porcelain bowl until my world decides to stop spinning so violently. Ugh, I have to go brush my teeth for the god-awful taste of my bile to go away, but I remain slumped against the toilet for a little while longer.

Who was the imbecilic doofus that decided to give it such a misleading title, anyway? It's four pm, and I am still feeling nauseous. 'Morning' sickness my ass.

I remind myself that I invited guests over and lazily get to my feet. Perhaps I should have patiently waited until I at least had some physical evidence, but there is that five-year-old in me that can't seem to keep secrets from her best friends.

As if it were scripted, the doorbell rings as soon as I've finished carelessly brushing my teeth, and I excitedly skip over to answer the door.

"Gabriella!" Sharpay trills, "God, it's like I haven't seen you in forever! We should totally go out for drinks sometime."

"Hey, Gabriella," says Taylor from beside the blond.

They let themselves in, and I speak up, "Actually, I'm going to have to pass up on the alcohol, guys."

"Jeez, have you become a teetotaller or something? I'm willing to bet that you will cave in from this whole 'abstaining from alcohol' thing in five months when at my wedding," Sharpay jokes.

"_No_," I say smugly, "I'm just pregnant."

If there is anything good to come out of this pregnancy, it's seeing the downright shocked and ecstatic faces when you tell people your news.

"No way! Omigosh, Gabi," Taylor shrieks in delight while throwing her arms around me, "congratulations!"

"And we weren't there when you took the test _because_?" Sharpay pretends to be insulted, but she can't help but squeal, too, and joins the hug.

"Damn, I'd love to have kids one day, but I think that topic freaks Chad out," Taylor muses. Hey, so I do have something in common with her husband.

"Zeke and I just got engaged a couple of months ago, and we've already talked about it," Sharpay gloats, "We've both decided on four kids."

Holy crap. Good luck them, Shar. Unless you have multiples, that's thirty-six months of pregnancy all together.

Taylor comments, "First to get married and first to have kids, Gabs. You're so lucky."

"Well, I'm glad you're pregnant first. I'd have so many questions to ask you," Sharpay states, exasperatedly.

I incredulously ask, "So what? I'm the guinea pig?"

"It would have to be one of us;" Taylor gives me her anticipated practical answer.

Sharpay nods and agrees, "You basically volunteered yourself. We didn't force you to get pregnant."

"Oh, I _so_ call being the godmother!" exclaims Taylor, clapping her hands together in excitement.

Sharpay shows her apparent disagreement by responding, "Hey!"

"Well, _you_ got to be the maid of honour at her wedding!"

"I looked better in the dress!"

Taylor rolls her dark eyes and scoffs, "Says who?"

"Oh, you're just jealous," Sharpay snaps. My best friends scowl menacingly at each other while paying no attention to me, the pregnant one.

"I deserve to be the godmother, because you certainly aren't responsible enough, and the child should never consider you as a role model."

"Says who?" she mimics.

"I doubt anyone ever will," replies Taylor haughtily, "because that's called _stating the obvious_."

Someone tell me this isn't going to last another several months.

------

An hour later, they leave to go back to their own lives, consulting whatever problems they might have at the moment, and leaving me to dwell with mine.

As I wait for my husband to get home, I snuggle up comfortably on our couch and open a recently bought book that I managed to smuggle into the house. It's titled '_Befriending Your Belly: How to Overcome Pregnancy Fears_'. However, I don't want Troy to know that I'm not as enthusiastic as he is about the baby, so I took a book jacket off one of my hard cover books and slipped it on.

He'll get the impression that I am reading '_The Melancholic Musings of Joe, an Underpaid Plumber_' instead.

I would have used one of my _Harry Potter _book jackets, but Troy knows I don't understand half of the magical, made-up terms in there.

After a long day of exhaustion and queasiness, I wish he would just come home, but he's too busy putting in extra hours at work, trying to impress the boss, all in the pursuit of a raise. I can tell he's noticing some of my nerves; although, he thinks they're fears of not having enough money to support the baby, especially during my maternity leave, and he's periodically fussing over the decision of moving into a bigger house for more room or not.

No matter what my mom's opinion is, I can do this without admitting anything to Troy. He has already done so much for me, anyway, and he's even planning on gong to all our monthly prenatal visits to the doctor's office. He doesn't have to know that I can't independently handle my own stress. Who says I can't be proactive and take the initiative to eliminate my fears myself? In fact, I've already done so. Note the disguised book.

------

On Friday morning, I trudge into the teacher's lounge, gripping a copy of today's paper. It's so early in the morning that it's only Mrs. Cross, the perky music teacher, and me in here.

She hunches over a counter next to the refrigerator, with her back facing me. We've only talked very briefly several times, but today I feel inclined to chirp out a greeting. "Good morning, Kelsi!"

The thin, curly-haired woman suddenly jumps up in surprise, and a butter knife goes flying out of her hands, clattering to the floor. As she bends over to retrieve the fallen utensil, she brightly says, "Hey, Gabriella."

And that's when I see it.

A small beige plate sitting innocently on the marble counter top. Beside it lays an open plastic container of plain cream cheese, which would explain the knife. On this plate is an average sized pickle that's curved ever so slightly, topped with a perfect amount of the white spread.

I've never wanted to stuff anything else in my mouth so badly.

"I'm not a freak, I swear!" squeaks Kelsi after straightening up, her face and neck turning a reddish hue.

Using my thumb to wipe away some of my drool, I reassure her, "I don't think you're a freak, Kels."

"I've just been…having these odd, inexplicable cravings and…" she stutters, but I'm staring intently at her stomach. More specifically, a barely-noticeable bump on her stomach.

"Are you…?"

She shakily replies to my unfinished question, following my gaze, "Um, yeah, I'm expecting."

A broad grin appears on my overjoyed face. "You're pregnant too!" I blurt out.

"Too? So you're_—_?"

"I found out, like, a week ago!" Let me say that I have absolutely no idea why I'm so delighted about my pregnancy all of a sudden. It's probably just the elatedness that comes when you find out someone else is forced through the same torturous events as you are, but amplified by my hormones.

"I'm three months along already. Oh, isn't it the most amazing feeling in the world when you get your pregnancy confirmed by your doctor?" she says passionately.

"Something like that," I mutter back.

"When is your's due?"

"Um...in seven months." So if she's a month ahead of me then that's perfect! I can ask her advice, and we can talk baby stuff together. Maybe even try prenatal yoga to reduce stress and prepare for labour since I might feel awkward stumbling into sessions alone.

You know what? This is actually turning out to be quite fun. Because of my mom's consoling words, my best friends' enthusiasm, my guide book to calm my fears and the discovery of a fellow teacher being in the same situation, I think I'm going to be fine.

I could do without the morning sickness, but that's natural. It's supposed to happen. I'm normal. And normal people have healthy babies and a higher chance at a problem-free birth, don't they? I would hope so.

------

**AN:** I know. A Troy-less chapter, but he'll pop up again in the next. So yeah, Gabriella doesn't want to rely on Troy that much. Wonder how well that will work out for her.


	5. Minor Concern

Flatly, I state, "You're staring again."

From across the rounded dinner table, Troy blinks, putting on a dumbfounded act worthy of a toddler, but he doesn't fool me one bit. "Hm?" he casually asks and then stuffs another forkful of food into his mouth.

"They're my breasts, Troy. I've noticed that they have gotten bigger. There's no need to stare," I say, smirking.

Thirteen weeks along and at the start of my second trimester, the earlier nausea, tiredness and frequent need to use the bathroom are starting to fade, thankfully. Plus, I still have a while to go before my due date so there would never be a better time to start enjoying this pregnancy other than now. 'The glass is half full' will be my new mantra for the time being.

My new curves are an added bonus—until I start to resemble a waddling whale, that is.

"Kelsi found out the gender of her baby today," I inform him after I finish chewing my pasta.

"Oh, really? Did she tell you which one it was?" he earnestly asks.

"Yes," I say brightly, "it's a girl. Oh, a miniature Kelsi would look so cute...but a boy would look just as adorable...but she wouldn't be able to buy those little dresses we saw the other day if it was a boy..."

Troy interrupts my rambling, "Are you planning on finding out before the birth, too?"

"I want to," I slowly admit, drumming my fingers against the hard, wooden surface of the table. "Did you want to know?"

"To be honest, Gabriella," he starts, "wouldn't it make the experience so much more memorable if we found out after the birth? It's a great surprise."

Memorable?

For you? Maybe. For me? I would rather forget all the pain and let it pass by in an unrecognizable blur.

"Uh, don't you think there will be enough surprise? We'll find out what the baby looks like then and find out the sex now. We can't save all the surprise until the end; it's got to be evenly distributed, don't you think?"

I can't have myself anticipating the birth just to know if I have a boy or a girl. The whole period before it will pass too quickly if I do, and I have to savour every moment there is before D-Day.

Troy has a look of disagreement on his face and thoughtfully ponders his next words to try to sway me into altering my opinion.

Darn, I've got to learn how to reason with people better. I mean, evenly distribute the surprise? What was that all about?

"Patience pays off, Gabi," he finally says, "Come on, it'll be more magical if we find out then."

Where did this magical nonsense come from? Unless the pregnancy book works, I will most likely be weeping while screaming my head off the whole time, but I can't tell Troy that. I refuse to give up. "It will help us choose a name, pick out clothes and decorate the nursery accordingly if we _don't_ wait."

His cerulean orbs display disappointment in their pleading depths. Be strong, Gabriella, I tell myself. If our baby inherits his eyes then I'm a goner, and the child will undoubtedly be spoiled rotten.

"Well, it's too early to find out now. We'll see if either one of us changes our mind when you go to get a sonogram," Troy finishes. Procrastination has always been a nasty habit of his.

I grudgingly agree, "Okay."

In my pregnancy book, it says I should always be open with my husband because that should help reduce stress. And I am. I share everything with him—except for admitting to having possession of the book and my fear, but that's only two things.

I even shared the dream/nightmare I had last night with Troy, the one where I gave birth to a squawking baby duck. He seemed perturbed, but I hastily reassured him Kelsi had found out that dreams about giving birth to animals were not uncommon in pregnant woman.

"So you and Kelsi are really good friends now?" he says, changing the topic.

I nod happily. "It's amazing how much we've bonded over such a short time span. We discuss everything, from tactics for getting the kids to shut up to how we think our lunch breaks should be longer." When I notice his plate is void of any food, I ask, "Are you done? Should I take your plate?"

"You're pregnant, Gabi, let me clear the table myself," he says and pushes his chair back to get up.

Frowning and not wanting to feel incompetently useless, I retort, "Jeez, it's not like I can barely stand. My stomach's only started to swell a little bit." Then I swiftly get to my feet, planning to grab his dish, but a sudden twinge in my abdomen stops me. I wince, and while placing a hand on my stomach I mutter, "Ow."

His head snaps up in alarm immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, it's nothing. The pain's gone now," I reply, hoping that if I ignore the discomfort, it will go away and never come back. Still, life never works out that way, in your favour, and I can't help but be just a tad concerned.

My hand moves forward to retrieve the empty plate when Troy speaks again, "I don't think that should be disregarded. Maybe we should see the doctor tomorrow."

"Maybe we're overreacting…?" I hesitantly inquire. "You know what? It could have just been a kick from the baby. It didn't even hurt that much, actually. I was simply caught off guard."

Honestly, Troy, I worry enough for the both of us, and I am trying to be ignorant here.

Oh, shit. What will occur if he is right? I could be having a miscarriage right now, yet I'm carelessly turning a blind eye to it. Somebody call 9-1-1.

Adopting a serious expression, he says, "Are you sure?"

"Y-Yeah," I mumble, "If it happens again, we'll see the doctor, okay?"

"All right."

But I don't hear him. I can't make a big deal out of this except the words '_panic panic panic' _keep running through my mind as fast as Sharpay trying to get to a Dolce & Gabbana sale. And trust me; her speed rivals a bullet's velocity.

Needless to say, sleep tonight is out of the question.

**_-----_**

_**AN: **Review, please? Even if it's just to say 'Update' or 'Weird chapter' or whatever. I'll take anything. Did I do something wrong to make the number of reviews go from 10 for the first two to 1 each for the last two chapters...?_


	6. Nothing Wrong With Procrastination

_**AN:** Thanks for all the nice comments! My whole day instantly gets better when I read your reviews. To thank everyone, here's the longest chapter of this story yet (which kind of isn't that long, anyway)_

_**-----**_

My students are going to kill me. Or at least be very irritable.

I still have not marked their tests, and they've been begging to see their marks for about a week now. It's unfair to them, but the twenty-something amount of identical papers have the same effect on me as a lullaby. Whenever I sit down, my body is begging for me to doze off.

Taking breaks between several tests seems reasonable. Although I prefer to mark them all at once, keeping the same mindset when I grade them, to be fair. Though it appears that I'll have to make an exception this time, as I am perched on the edge of my seat, trying my hardest to stay focused and sloppily making check marks wherever necessary.

I must look like the most careless teacher ever, sitting in the teacher's lounge, starting what I should have done a long time ago. My plan is to mark half the tests this morning, before my classes, and the other half at lunch.

It doesn't help that I've avoided addressing the pain I felt yesterday after dinner either.

"Gabriella!" chimes Kelsi after just entering the room. I've got to find the secret behind her cheeriness. "What are you doing?"

"Grading tests," I respond as my eyes dart back and forth, wondering why a kid would want to write an essay for an answer when I had noted that I simply wanted point form. This is unmistakably the work of Tiara Gold. Her overachieving ways are only sometimes admirable.

She nods understandingly. "Need any help? You look kind of tired there," remarks Kelsi sympathetically.

Guilt wraps itself around my heart. Turns out procrastinated just as much as I claimed Troy did. I should be resting and taking care of my baby. Smiling thankfully, I say, "Okay, only if you want to though."

"Of course, Gabriella! I'm no Science whiz, unfortunately, so I can't do much."

"How are you at simple Math? Can you check to see if I've added up their marks correctly?" I question, while pointing to my not-so-neat, 'finished' pile.

Kelsi pulls out a chair for herself at my table and gathers up the completed tests neatly.

We work in silence for a while, both of us working hard on our respective tasks when a recent memory pops up in my mind. "Oh, Kels, can I ask you something?"

"Anything," she sweetly replies.

I stop moving my pen for a moment. "Well, last night I felt this pain in my stomach, and I think it had something to do with the baby. Do you know anything about it? Should I go see a doctor?"

"Did you, like, suddenly change position or something?" Kelsi frowns in concern.

"Yes, I stood up quickly before I felt it."

The worry leaves her face. "I'm pretty sure it's just Round Ligament Pain, Gabriella. I went to see my doctor about it, and he said it's the feeling of the abrupt stretching of the ligaments in your uterus." She concludes, "It usually goes away if you rest a bit, and you should try to move slower and more carefully."

I heave a sigh of relief. "Thanks, I was sort of freaking out about it," I admit.

"I tend to blow things out of proportion, but my husband, Jason, is the most level-headed person I've met." She glows with pride and gazes at her stomach, looking as if she wishes that she could see her seventeen-month-old baby. "He makes me feel like nothing can go wrong with this pregnancy."

I tap the edge of the blue pen against the table, in thought. I really shouldn't be masking my true feelings from Troy...

The loud clack of heels makes both of us snap our heads in the same direction. Our colleague, Mrs. Fitch, struts into the teacher's lounge as if it were a boardroom with those long, spindly legs of hers. She always has a stiff gait and rarely shows emotion, preferring not to socialize with anyone. She has that professional air to her, routinely dressing as if she is a lawyer instead of a teacher. Even her coffee _smells_ expensive.

Most students have dubbed her 'Mrs. Witch', but when they think no adults are around, they call her 'Mrs. Bitch', of course.

She takes a moment to glare at our innocent expressions before pursing her red lips, flicking her highlighted hair and confidently striding right past us without a single word. But that's not what shocks us. It's that she, for the first time, has acknowledged our existence.

Yet I have the feeling our baby bumps got most of the attention.

**_-----_**

At nine-thirty pm, Troy furiously types away on his laptop, and I can imagine his riveting eyes darkening in concentration. I take timid steps toward his hunched back. I'm going to do this. I'll tell him being pregnant is scaring the shit out of me, and we're going to find a way to magically brace ourselves through this, _together_.

I squeak, "Troy?" And like a pubescent teenager, my voice cracks.

"_Arg_!" He jumps up in shock. "Whoa, Gabi, you scared me."

"Sorry," I say quietly, "you looked like you were working hard there."

He nods then runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah...it's just...work...you know."

"I see..." I raise my eyebrows. "Any problems?"

"Nothing you have to worry about," he blurts out promptly. Boy, he sounds stressed. This doesn't feel like the right time to unload my problems on to his, so I'll just postpone the conversation until later. It's the right thing to do; I'm being a good wife.

"So the slight twinge I felt yesterday wasn't abnormal or anything," I inform him, "Kelsi told me it was just ligaments stretching because of my expanding belly."

He finally gives me his signature lop-sided smile and looks genuinely relaxed at my good news. "That's great. And, uh, I have to be honest, the prospect of a buying a new, bigger house doesn't seem very likely anymore," he confesses, frowning again.

"It's okay, Troy," I breezily urge him to be optimistic, "a bigger house would be a nuisance. It would mean more space we have to travel to get to the baby!"

He shakes his head unbelievingly and laughs. Beaming at my proudly he says, "God, I love you, Gabi. Even though I can't properly provide for my family, you're still able to see the glass half full. You're so calm, but I thought you were worried before about finances?"

"Don't sell yourself short. Were not on the streets; we have a roof over our heads, and it may not be a lavish shelter, but it is one nonetheless," I state, determined to make him stop beating himself up.

"I guess, but no more talk about money issues. Have you decided that you do want to save the surprise of finding out the gender after all?" he teases.

I cross my arms and defiantly declare, "Nope, I'm just waiting for you to budge."

He grins boyishly. "Not happening. So, moving on, how do you like that book so far? I've been meaning to ask you for a while."

"Huh?"

"The one I've seen you reading, _The Melancholic Musings of Joe._"

Crap. "It's...it's nice," I fib. I barely have time to read my pregnancy guidebook, let alone one about a mopey plumber. Exhaustion goes hand in hand with pregnancy.

"I was sifting through your book shelf one day," Troy eagerly continues, "I read it a while ago when I was bored. What part have you gotten up to, and what did you think about it?"

Since when did we form a private, two-person book club? Wringing my hands, I stammer, "You know...where he...um..."

He reflects, "It's so sad, isn't it? Joe's life. You know, I feel as if I can relate to him well recently. The way the author portrays the melancholy is also very intriguing. I'm surprised, with all your hormones that you didn't cry whenever you were reading it, actually."

"I wasn't that hormonal. I can handle my melancholy better than you might think, gosh."

"Have you gotten to the part where his mother falls down the stairs, and he struggles to pay the hospital bills?" he excitedly babbles.

"N—no..."

His enthusiasm crescendos. "Have you—"

"Troy, you're spoiling the book for me," I grunt.

"Right, sorry, Gabriella." And the enthusiasm deflates.

Feeling like I've stolen something as precious as candy from a defenceless baby, I say, "It's fine. I think I'm going to go to bed now, though."

By lingering a bit longer, I imply that I want him to follow, but he declines. "I'll stay here and join you later."

After I sleepily bid him good night, he kisses me on the cheek, and I lumber up the stairs, promising myself I'll tell him soon.


	7. Faltering Smiles

**AN:** Judging from the lack of reviews, I'm guessing you aren't happy with the direction the story's going? School's getting busier and I just want to get this story over with so I've made the decision to abruptly end it. This isn't the last chapter, but I have skipped over a few. But they weren't _that_ necessary, I think. So you might be a bit disappointed with this chapter's ending. Truth is, I couldn't think of anything else, and I did warn you it'd be abrupt.

So anyway...

_(Italics are flashbacks)_

**_-----_**

_With Troy at my side, I stare blankly at the ceiling while the sonographer applies some gel on to my abdomen. This is surreal. We will actually get to see our precious baby in just moment's time, and I cannot wait. Boy, when you're pregnant, you're stuck waiting for home pregnancy test results, waiting for the sonographer to hurry up and waiting nine months whole months before the baby to pop out. Not to mention labour, too. Pregnancy is definitely not for impatient people. I caved not to long ago that I'd wait until the birth to find out the sex, so that only meant more waiting and watching the clock for time to pass._

_Then, in a heartbeat, blurry black and white blobs appear on the screen. It is all fuzzy and unrecognizable, but that is our baby that's inside me. Tears threaten to fall as I recall absurd moments where I didn't even want this. God, I must be crazy._

_I glance at Troy who's gazing at the image in admiration. The sonographer starts to point out random body parts to Troy and me before something that doesn't look right causes my breath to quicken in alarm._

_"What's that?" I yelp, pointing to the screen, "Oh, no, your dad was right, Troy. It does have two heads." I squint again at the two unmistakable curvy things. They look identical and now I'm trying to locate the eyes. I don't know how I'll take it if I count four of them peering right at me._

_The sonographer drones, "Mrs. Bolton, that would be your baby's feet."_

_"Oh...and what wonderful feet it has." I clear my throat, embarrassed and flushing a bright shade of red._

**_-----_**

My first sonogram seems like ages ago as I sit in the hospital bed again for another one, but I still can't get over that miraculous feeling whenever I see our baby.

It has been several months, yet Troy remains clueless about my earlier fears. But I finished my book, _Befriending Your Belly_, not too long ago, and I think I am prepared for whatever may come. Kelsi and I have been attending prenatal yoga classes every week, and I feel great. Troy and I have also finished the nursery, choosing a nice yellow to paint the walls. I worked myself up for nothing, but now I've overcome my fear all by myself.

"Hm," mumbles the sonographer, moving the small white probe around my abdomen.

Hm? _Hm what? _Please let the baby be okay. Please let it not have two heads--but I'll still love it if it does. I'm never going to be an abusive mother that won't accept her child, for who they really are, and while the world may shun my son or daughter, they'll always have me to depend on.

"What is it?" asks Troy, voicing my thoughts.

He states, "Your baby is breech."

Breech? "Oh, no," I say gravely, "is that when whales swim too close to land, and they end up getting stranded on the shore?"

"Um, no, Mrs. Bolton. That's _beached_. Breech means your baby is in a feet-first position in your uterus."

I dramatically whisper, "And can anything be done about it?"

"You shouldn't have to worry. You are only thirty-five weeks pregnant so the baby will still have time to turn, and most breech babies do. There are methods you may want to try at home, and medical professionals could try to turn your baby. Although a caesarean section is usually planned if your baby remains breech, you can deliver it vaginally, too."

Caesarean. That means a risk of infection. I think I might faint.

**_-----_**

_In spite of using all my strength, and sucking in my belly as hard as I can, I can't get my favorite shirt to fit over the lump. I curse at my unsightly appearance. None of my clothes fit anymore, and as if stressing about labour wasn't enough, I have to be concerned about losing all my baby fat post pregnancy, too._

_I collapse on the floor of my walk-in closet and huff despairingly. Now stuck without anything to wear to work today, I knew I shouldn't have waited this long to avoid shopping for maternity clothes._

_"Gabriella?" Troy inquires, sliding open the door, "What's wrong?"_

_"I'm fat, and I no longer can wear any of my clothes," I moan pessimistically._

_He leaves then comes back with an unfamiliar article of clothing. "I saw this on EBay a while ago, and thought you might think it was cute!" He holds the shirt up for me to see. Written at the bottom is: "Meet my little friend"_

_I gulp at the maternity shirt that's sure to induce mortification. Maybe I'll...find an over-sized sweater or something._

_**-----**_

Troy is always helping me and has been incredibly supportive during all these past months. And now he's assisting me in trying to turn our child around. I called Kelsi for any advice she might be able to offer, but she doesn't seem to be home tonight.

I read that, when turning a baby, you are supposed to elevate your stomach to be above your heart, so Troy has taken an ironing board and propped one end on to our couch for me to lie on.

"Are you sure it's stable?" I ask anxiously, "What if the board breaks under my weight."

"It's secure, Gabriella," he replies, "Come here, I'll help you on to it."

My back is flat against the board, and my knees are bent so my feet flat on the board as well. I hold my breath. This better work.

"Remember to relax," Troy mentions, "and don't be so tense." Then he fishes for the flashlight and flicks the switch on. We've also read that the baby may follow the light if you move it from the top of your belly towards the bottom.

"Do you feel it turning?" he asks, slowly moving the flashlight.

I frown, not noticing any change at all. "No."

"Well, you'll have to do it for ten to fifteen minutes so it may take a while," he consoles the both of us.

I attempt to concentrate on calming down. Darn, just when I accepted that labour was going to be all right, this happens and I'm worried all over again. Whenever I divert from anything normal, my heart rate can't help but go crazy.

_**-----**_

This morning we tried again but received no results, yet it was recommended that I do it three times a day, so, nevertheless, I haven't given up hope. I manage a jubilant smile and enter the teacher's lounge, only to be met with several solemn expressions. There's a heaviness in the air that makes my smile falter and finally fade away. Fidgeting nervously, I conclude that it's a 'who's going to break the news to her' moment and wait for someone to speak up.

We all remain motionless for a while and fear starts to clog up my airway. I force myself to take a deep breath, and my hands fly to my stomach, a new nervous habit of mine. Won't someone kindly tell me what it is? Am I fired? Did I wear my bra outside of my shirt today?

"Oh, for goodness sakes," groans Ms. Fitch, throwing her bony arms skyward and rolling her eyes in an effort to portray her exasperation. "Shall I tell her then?"

"Gabriella," Martha feebly says, "we received some bad news this morning."

Fuck. What the hell is wrong? I wish Kelsi were here to tell me already, but for some reason, she's absent today. Martha, the math teacher whose voice is usually loud, booming and inspiring, glances at me sadly with half-lidded eyes.

She starts again, "Kelsi..."

"What about her?" I interrupt, "Is everything okay with the baby?"

Martha nods her head languidly. She speaks in a hoarse voice, "The baby's fine. Kelsi gave birth last night, but there were complications—I don't know all the details—and unfortunately," she paused, "Kelsi didn't make it."

...Oh my God. She's gone. Forever. But she was just fucking _there_. I can remember her voice and her appearance and everything about her like she was still alive and a phone call away. I feel light-headed, the rest of my body is numb and I struggle to fight off the denial that's racing through my mind, making me want to cover up the truth to pretend it never happened.

But one of my best friends just _died_.

And in labour.

Something I will have to go through in just a couple weeks time, no matter what.

**_-----_**

**AN:** If you have any suggestions for the baby's gender or name, please tell me. I'd love to hear them. =)


	8. Confessions of a Pregnant Wife

**AN:** Sorry if this seems rushed?

_**-----**_

I merely plod around for the rest of the day, unable to focus on anything and attempting to accept the news that I recently received. Worksheets were handed out to my students, and they spend most of their time in silence as I force them to do individual work. I feel numb but generally overwhelmed and incapable of handling anything that required much effort, such as tuning out the blaring voices of the teenagers I taught.

As I drifted from my class to the bathroom during my lunch break, I couldn't stop thinking of how _this may be my last moments alive_. Of course it was never guaranteed that everyone survived labour or everyday life in general, but Kelsi's sudden death made my fears that more real. It brought me to realize that Kelsi, one of the sweetest people I knew, was given the worst of luck and that it could happen to me, too.

She didn't know her fate when her water broke, did she? Her kind face must have instantly brightened in joy and anticipation as she barked for her husband to call an ambulance immediately because they would finally get to meet their child. She was so mislead, and I wish I could have done something—anything to stop what happened last night.

Salty tears somehow manage to materialize in my eyes as I wonder if she even got to see her baby. She was looking forward to having her precious daughter in her arms so badly I thought she would never bring herself to let the baby go once she was given the child to hold.

I pictured the Cross family as being very close. The kind of family that you envied as they strolled leisurely through the mall or park, carefree and hand in hand, having the time of their lives. The kind of family to never be ripped apart. Especially so soon. I hope they at least had one moment together.

I felt sorry for Jason. The perfect family image was so close and in reach before he lost it all in seconds.

My heart went out to the baby. She would grow up without the brilliance of her mother, only able to eagerly listen to past stories and wonder what could have been.

I'll never be able to sit with Kelsi in the nice little coffee shop we discovered as we basked in the sun, juggling our kids and beaming proudly, while everyone cooed at them. We will never get to go shopping together for our little ones, and we'll never help each other plan our children's birthdays. She won't call me when Jason starts to freak out as soon as he hears that his daughter has a boyfriend. She'll never answer the phone when it's me calling, asking for her advice that's always endless.

Kelsi was the farthest person to deserve this. She was so strong, stronger than I was. And if I was weak, what would happen while I was in labour? The baby is already breech, and I can't bare to think of what might happen if it doesn't turn. And if it does turn, I've heard stories about the umbilical cord wrapping around its tiny neck, causing it to suffocate. Oh, the possibilities.

If anything, my chances of having complications should be higher than hers.

This is life's way of telling me I shouldn't get my hopes up, isn't it? All these events are simply warning signs that I should heed.

"Gabriella!" someone hisses.

"Huh?" My head snaps up as I look for the source of the sound.

"It's me," Ms. Fitch says quietly. I've never heard her talk as dejectedly as this before, so I am a tad concerned. "I have something to tell you."

"What is it?" I earnestly ask, curious. I'll take anything that will shift my thoughts from Kelsi's death to something else.

"I know what you're going through." She clears her throat awkwardly, and I wait for her to continue. Did she have a secret friendship with Kelsi? "I mean, you're worrying about the baby, aren't you?"

Her boastfulness has seemed to disappear, I remark. "Well," I say slowly, "I'm always worried."

"I would be, too. And I was when I was pregnant."

"You have a son or daughter?" I haven't heard any personal stories from Ms. Fitch before. She always says what she needs to and leaves.

"She passed away shortly after birth a couple of years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I tell her in a hushed tone.

"And I was so jealous of you and Kelsi with your big stomachs and grins that I was ashamed of myself. But I just wanted to tell you that you can come to me if you'd like to talk. And you should talk and let it all out because I know from experience that keeping everything bottled up isn't healthy at all, whether it would be to me or someone else," she informs me, slightly strict.

"Thanks, and if you ever need to talk, I'm here, too."

We both smile at each other understandingly.

**_-----_**

Troy's late from work and with every tragic story I've heard lately, it's inevitable that I assume the worst again. You'd think he'd turn on his cell phone, but he didn't. I curl into a ball and lean against a counter in our kitchen, feeling the smooth, cold and tiled floor under me. I've given up on cleaning (nesting, as Troy would call it). And I've decided to sit here, unmoving, until he comes home, so I know he is safe.

Two minutes pass and I grow more fearful by the second. It's agony waiting for his arrival, and I feel exhausted and drained after my day.

"Gabriella, I'm home!" he calls from the hallway.

"Why were you so late, and how come you didn't call?" I sputter. For some reason, I'm spontaneously weeping. This all feels like a nightmare. One that's worse than the duck dream.

"Gabi, what's wrong?" He panics, rushing to crouch by my side and taking me in his arms.

I gasp for air and try to get out a few words. "It's..." Sob. "Kelsi." Sob. "She--"

He stokes my hair soothingly as I hiccup. "Shh, calm down. It's going to be okay."

"She's dead, Troy," I lament dismally.

"Wh-what?" He pulls away so he can look me in the eyes. His blue orbs fearfully widen in disbelief. "How--?"

"She was in labor...and then she just...something went wrong...I don't know what..."

"Oh, no, Gabi," he breathes, "I'm so sorry."

I rub furiously at my tears. "But what if...what if..." I can't seem to speak coherently.

"What is it?" he urges in a concerned tone.

"What if that's me? What if that'll happen to me, too?"

"I promise that I'll never let anything happen to you."

"I'm sorry, Troy, but you aren't a doctor with years of professional training. And even if you were, what would make you any different from the ones who tried to help Kelsi?"

Troy exhales and frowns. "Well, Gabriella," he croaks, "there's nothing to do but have faith and remain positive. You can't control life."

I groan hopelessly, burying my head in my heads.

"I can promise that I'll never leave your side," murmurs Troy.

"Thanks." I weakly smile. He's right, and even though that's what I've been telling myself throughout this whole emotional ride, there's something about the way the words come out of his mouth so reassuringly that makes me believe them.

"What brought on this whole breakdown, anyway? I mean, I know Kelsi's death was hard to take, but you were doing so well at coping with this before."

"To tell you the truth, Troy," I mumble vacantly, staring at my bump, "I wasn't even sure I wanted this baby in the first place."

"What? Why?" he asks, alarmed.

"You know...remember that Geography teacher we had in eleventh grade?"

He blinks, recalling his high school years. "The one in the wheelchair?"

I nod wearily. "She only had to use one because of giving birth."

"Oh, Gabriella," he sighs, "why didn't you tell me earlier instead of keeping everything to yourself?"

"I thought I could handle it myself! Then I would get it over with, and we would have our baby, and I would move on...but then Kelsi..." I stutter, my hysterical voice slurring, "I didn't want to seem weak or childish. You looked like you had so much on your plate already, too. I felt guilty because everyone wants a baby. What if I don't like my own baby, Troy? What if I go through that whole postpartum depression thing?"

"I'm always here for you, remember?" he remorsefully consoles me, "I think you should stop worrying about the 'what if's, and about the baby...it'll be inevitably lovable."

"Inevitably lovable?"

"Why not? It'll be a part of both of us, right? And we love each other." He grins warmly, the type of smile that reminds you of butterflies and hope.

"That's true—_Oh my God, Troy_!" I gasp.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Did I just fucking_ leak_?

_**-----**_

**AN:** I'll still take suggestions for names/genders. =)

Hey, I just realised that someone always dies in my stories. Oops. I'll come up with something different next time.


End file.
